The Graduates
by Cavaticarose
Summary: Shepard graduates from N7 training. A brief look at the pivotal years after that. Prequel to Worst-Laid Plans.


**2175**

"Yo Shepard, you ever wonder why the brass still makes us wear these damn things?"

I look over at Brigtsen as she shrugs into a freshly-pressed stark white uniform. She's _always_ about asking questions like that. But as I pin the ceremonial red rope across my shoulder I can't help but wonder the same thing.

"Because when you look at how silly this looks, objectively anyway, it doesn't make a lick of good sense," she continues. "There ain't even a place to hold my knives!"

"I'm pretty sure graduation is the last place we'll have to worry about combat," I grin. "What do you think, they give us maybe two days before they start hitting us with big missions?"

"Big missions my flying fat fanny. The only thing we've got to worry about these days are mercs and those damn batarians. Squeezing a bunch of blinks out of our territory sounds more like clean-up than anything 'big.'"

She's probably right. And the way Mom and Captain Rogers were talking, we'll probably be forced to scale off any direct aggression, especially against the batarians. We've only just now caught up with the number of ships humanity is 'allowed' to have, according to the Council regulations. We're still too new, still trying to prove ourselves to the other races. No way in hell are they going to tolerate warmongering from humans just yet.

Even if it did work well for the turians.

"Ok, so maybe we don't get anything big," I say as I fix my hair under my cap. "Maybe you're right, and we do a few skirmishes, then rise in rank like they promised us. Then you, me, and your flying fat fanny'll get posted on some dreadnought until the end of our days."

"Ugh," Brigtsen grimaces. "If that's my fate, then just stick me back in Rio. I'll be damned if I have to live on a fucking space whale."

"Ship duty's not so bad."

"Yeah, and they're not so good either." She stands by me. A little taller than me, though somehow the new designation makes us both feel like skyscrapers. I look in the mirror, eyes darting between her lean olive-toned face and my 'brown and round,' as she put it. We look good. We earned this.

"We are goddamned N7s," I beam.

"That we are, Shepard. Let's go get pinned."

* * *

The ceremony was stodgy as any other Alliance shindig, but I'll be damned if I wasn't having fun anyway. My whole class, or what's left of us is here, each of us grinning like kids on Christmas. We made it. We're N7s, the best of the best.

We each stand at attention as the brass calls us forward. Get our N7 pins, shake hands, smile for the feeds. Simple enough, but oh holy shit it's Anderson and Hackett.

Good thing I'm last.

I march up, heart pounding in my ears. I shouldn't feel this nervous. Hell, the airdrops were harder than this. Treating salarian wounds was harder than this. I'm walking up to a podium and shaking hands, I've _got_ this.

"Shepard. You earned this. No surprise there," Hackett says, not unkindly. "You'll do us proud."

"Yes sir!"

I move over to Anderson, hand outstretched.

"Good job, kid. You always said you liked red."

 _Oh God, I can't believe he remembers that. I was twelve for Christ's sake._

"Still do, sir. Can't wait to get back out there."

"Your time will come soon enough. But for now, congratulations."

* * *

"Ok, ok I got one. How about when Shepard tried to hack the escape pod and set off every alarm in the training zone?" Franklin stands up and imitates me. "'It's fine guys, part of the process. This way they'll just come to us.'"

We're stowed away in one of the holds on Jump Zero, all but hiding from the press, brass and anyone else that wants an interview. We just want one last drink together before we take on our own shitshows.

Not everyone makes it to N7. Some drop out of the program, some get discharged, and others just know their limits. And then once you earn a new rank, there's a whole new crop of people that've been trying to bump up for years, so there's always a mix. It's rare to have a group come in and leave out at the same time.

But we did. Five of us out of our class of 16 candidates, which is a fucking lot according to the brass. And these guys? They're good people. Until we start shitting on each other.

"Nooo, I don't sound like that," I protest. "And they _did_ come to us. Besides, Frankie, what about when _you_ almost harpooned that mine on our dive expedition?" I take a swig of beer anyway. Point goes to Frankie, even if it is libel.

"Water don't count, Shepard," Patel says. "Unless we're dealing with hanar, and I don't see any jellyfish knocking over our colonies."

"You act like none of the garden rocks don't have water," Brigtsen replies. "You never know when we're gonna find some big ass alien lurking in the deep. You're just swimmin' along, then BAM!" She claps at me and grabs my shoulders. "Fuckin' Loch Ness, out of the blue."

We laugh. "If that's the case, me setting off a mine would be a good thing," Franklin says, but he takes a drink. "Alright, how about when Briggs took out that batarian scout?"

"We're supposed to be telling embarrassing stories," Brigtsen points out. "I was flawless."

"It was embarrassing for him," McDonald shoots back with a chuckle.

Franklin just leans back against the railing with a smug grin. "Taking him out was flawless. But what was it you said? 'Blink and you'll miss?' That's gonna go down in history as the cheesiest line ever."

We laugh hard at that, and watch as Brigtsen winks at Frankie and takes a swig.

 **2176**

I look at a datapad showing the reports on Elysium. The Blitz, they're calling it. A shitshow is what they should be calling it, based on what I'm reading. Though I guess eyes glazed over is a more apt description.

A lifetime of military topped with training with the cream of the crop means piercing through a lot of bullshit when looking at these reports. Sparse language means they're hiding something. Too much jargon means someone fucked up. 'Mutual casualties' means we lost.

'Significant casualties' means we'll be out for blood.

I scroll through the next page, detailing all the losses we suffered. Laid out in the usual way; division, rank, alphabet. As rigid as a turian's face, and it's that layout I have to thank when I see their names.

 _Lt. Cdr. Franklin, G._

 _Lt. Brigtsen, L._

I feel the back of my eyes sting as I read and reread the name. That fucking idiot was supposed to be on shore leave. She could have gone anywhere, do whatever she wanted, but she was _there_ and they hit.

"Lieutenant Shepard."

I snap to attention at the sound of that voice. I turn and salute the man, face tan and eyes haggard. From the looks of it, he'd been briefed three times over for what happened out there.

"Major Kyle."

"At ease." He beckons me to follow him down the hall. "I assume you read the reports."

"Yes, sir."

We'd been called into the fight late. Too late if you ask me, but it's hardly ever my call. If I had been there sooner, things would be different. Hell if I had tried to grab shore leave with her...

"Humanity is not going to take this lying down. We lost some good men over this attack, and their sacrifice saved a lot of lives. But before any of us get too eager, we have to remember one thing," Kyle says.

"Sir?"

"We didn't recapture Shanxi with numbers or better combat. Blunt force is for the damn skullfaces, and the asari have centuries to hone their skills. But you know what we've got?"

"Ingenuity, sir."

"And what else?"

I smirk. "We're not afraid of our damn computers, sir."

He cracks a smile at the old joke. When humanity entered the galactic arena it baffled us that turians and asari had been space travelers for centuries. Asari even went so far as saying we were still in caves while they were establishing colonies. Jon Grissom famously asked the question that fired up people like Brigtsen, people who'd never even held a gun, to sign up with the Alliance.

 _"If we're so late to the game, why're we still on the same playing field?"_

The technology issue was due to conflicts that happened back when we were still in corsets. Robot uprisings, played out just like in the old vids. That never really stopped humans from coming up with better technology, and putting them in the right hands. The other races claimed we didn't know any better. And maybe we didn't, but we sure as shit learned from their mistakes.

"We'll be spending the next few missions gathering intel, Lieutenant. Covert drops in their territory, engaging only when necessary. We've got to get a lock on their strongholds, hit them where it will hurt. And from the orders I'm getting up top, we're not just looking to bleed supply lines. They're talking a full clean-up."

"Sir, that's… That's what they're saying about this?"

"Our squad is the spearhead in this operation, Shepard. Do you think you can handle it?"

I look down at the datapad still in my hand, then back at Kyle's stern glare. "Yes, sir. Let's take the fight to them for a change."

 **2178**

"What prompted the decision to execute the remaining forces, even after they surrendered?"

I hear the question even as I suppress the faint tingle of a biotic flare coming on. It won't do to lose control, physically or emotionally during this interrogation.

"There was an unknown amount of enemies further in the bunk. I made the call because we didn't have enough forces to keep prisoners under surveillance and secure the area."

The captain nods at this. He looks again at my report of the incident. Sparse language. 'Significant casualties.'

'Accomplished mission.'

We were out for blood and we got it. I did what they asked of me despite the mission going pear-shaped. And to be honest, _because_ the mission went pear-shaped. There's no checkbox to tick for batarian mercs using their slaves as shields. Or asari children stinking of their own feces. Trapped for so long that when we tried to free them, they turned their feeble biotics against us.

"You said you made the call. Did Major Kyle belay the order? Did he agree with your actions?"

"Sir, the call was my own. Communication was jammed once we were midway through the tunnel networks. When the enem– When the opposing forces collapsed some of the tunnels, we were too separated to follow the standard protocol. As the next ranking officer, I made the call."

"Understood. Personally, I think you may have made the right call. This business with the batarians… it's grim, but necessary. We wanted to send a message and we did just that. Going over this report, though… I have to ask. Is there something else you want to say? Was any of this personal to you?"

For an instant I'm back in some shitty hold on the far side of Jump Zero, swigging a beer with my mates. Still fresh, N7s or not. Naïve, hopeful. Alive.

And now? Not so much.

"No sir," I respond. "We needed to complete the mission, and failure wasn't an option."

He regards me for a second. "Very well, Lieutenant. You're dismissed."


End file.
